Passing On
by rooty-boots
Summary: A sisteroneshot to Francienyc's lovely story 'The Hundred Day Winter'  Susan ponders her life and mortality, and that of her siblings, after a traumatic accident causes the Pevensies to think about what will happen to Narnia when they are gone.


_If you have read Francienyc's fabulous story "The Hundred Year Winter" (and I very much advise that you do!) then you will know the original characters we have created as the spouses and children of the four Pevensies. If not, here is the description Francie posted to explain once more:_

_Susan was the first to marry Erech, an impoverished nobleman from the Seven Isles who she met when Peter was thrown from his horse while they were visiting. They had a son, Dashiel and a daughter, Edina, who died when there was a sickness in the land. Peter wound up falling in love with Susan's midwife, a fiery, redheaded woman named Amelia who gave him a daughter, Susannah (called Anna by everyone). Meanwhile, Lucy fell in love with Prince Corin of Archenland, who I see as only three years her junior and had his son, Lucien, so named by Corin after the boy's mother. Lucien was constantly sick as a child with the same illness that killed Edina until he was healed by the cordial not by Lucy, but by Edmund, who he was very close to. (How that all came to pass is a whole other story). As for Edmund, this story feeds off the Artist's Tale (Francie's fic). He and Peridan split up for awhile, during which time Peridan's family pushed him into marriage, and his wife had a daughter Juliette. Without giving away a major part of "The Artist's Tale" for any who are interested, suffice it to say that Juliette has been raised in Cair Paravel with the other children in a slightly unorthodox family arrangement: Peridan is Juliette's Papa, her biological father, but he raised her with Edmund, who became Dada. But of course a little girl needs a female influence, so Peridan enlisted the help of his best friend, Susan, who pretty much adopted Juliette and became her Mama. _

_Now on with the story! I hope you enjoy! x_

It's because he almost died. That's why he's making us do this. He almost broke his neck, trying to beat Peridan in the joust, and now his thoughts are turned to death and endings. I don't like to see it. No matter how old Edmund gets, no matter that he is the most feared mind in the known world, no matter how many beards he tries to grow or witty retorts he throws in my direction, he will always be my little brother. I like to see him laugh and smile, hear him tease me and see his snapping eyes spark and roll. I don't like to see him pale and stuck in bed. And even though I may complain that he's too silly and standoffish, in truth, it scares me to have him clutch my hand and tell me he loves me, to hear him talk of 'after we're gone'.

I know he's right. These things must be settled some time, and he _is_ getting older, there's no denying it. We all are. I am confronted with the hard truth every day, by the lines around my eyes, by the softening of my figure, and the sparkling strands of silver I pluck as soon as they appear. Peter's hair is too light to notice the grey, but I see it when I cut his hair, and there is more every time, and the groove of worry between his eyes is etched almost as deep as the laughter lines. Lucy's figure is rounded now, one could almost say matronly. Almost, but not quite, for the girl in her still shines through. Her face is still apple cheeked and bonny, but she's no longer a sharp young Crab; rather she is an autumn fruit, whose skin may be a little wrinkled, but the flesh within is all the sweeter for it. And Edmund... well, as a 'carefree half-bachelor' he has weathered the years better than most. He's put on a little wine-weight, it's true, but he hides it well with his sleek black clothes, and the streaks of steel in his dark hair only serve to make him look more distinguished.

But, this last week has seen him age ten years. When the old Doctor told him he might not walk again, such a look of terror crossed his face as I have not seen since that day when the Witch came for him. To lose his independence... I know he would rather have died. I saw the idea cross over his face like a shadow, and my heart seized as he clutched my hand and cried on Peridan's shoulder. I have never seen Peter so pale, and Lucien has never before clung to his mother as tightly as she has to him. Now the worst of it is over. Edmund is up on his feet once more, albeit a little unsteady, and death is back in its rightful place as the worst possible enemy; but it almost came for him, and now it seems he can't forget it. He can't rest until he knows we are all ready to meet it, that our country will be safe from civil unrest when we are gone.

Still, is there really need to think of this now? What happened was an accident. Peridan has lost his taste for competing after nearly losing the love of his life, and so what motivation would there be for Edmund to ride again? He only did it to make Peridan mad. Even Lucy has lost her taste for competition. And it's not like any of them really ride out anymore, except for pleasure and exercise. Narnia has had peace for over a decade, now, and the only time Peter the Magnificent dons his shining armour is on festivals and high holidays. We're all healthy. There's been no sickness in this land since...

No. There's nothing to worry about. We're in the prime of our lives, and Narnia is the happiest, richest, most fertile country in the known world, a jewel at the centre of everything. Life is sweet. This has been the most beautiful summer yet; the children are almost children no longer. My son has just turned sixteen years old, a man already. My daughter is the sweetest flower, in the very bloom of her maidenhood. I love my husband; I'm happier than I've ever been. How can I be expected to want to think of the day I must leave all this behind me?

But I do it. We all four of us do it, to set Edmund's mind at rest. So Lucy and I are here in the treasury, sorting through our possessions, and Edmund sits with Peridan and Peter, working on the papers of succession, so there can be no quarrel. My son. Man or no, whatever Peter says of him, as his mother he seems to me to be too tender and too green to be a King. He loves his freedom as much as he loves his country. I wish he could have both, always, but it is not to be so. After Peter the Magnificent, comes Dashiel the First. Lucien will sit in Edmund's chair, and Susannah in mine. The only question is of the fourth throne; I have my hopes for that seat, but I do not dare to speak of them. Not yet.

The only proviso I have placed on it is that the children must not know what we are doing. It would only upset them to see us dividing up our possessions like this. I hold up each necklace, one by one, trying to see in my mind's eye whether it would better suit Juliette's cool creaminess, or Anna's golden warmth. In the end, I find myself with two piles; the silver, diamonds and pearls for my pretty daughter, and the gold, rubies and emeralds for my striking niece. Lucy sits beside me, marking each item down neatly in the ledger Edmund gave her, next to the name of its future owner. She looks very much like her son just now, and so unlike herself, she is so studious and quiet. This makes her as blue as it makes me, I know, but she doesn't show it; she simply bows her head over her pen. I think of Lucien. What can I give him? What can I leave behind to remind him how much his Aunt loves him, even if she never understood him?

Of some items, there is no question. Peter's sword and shield will go to his daughter. He wants it written that she is not to use them in battle, but they will belong to her all the same. The sword hangs there on the wall, as clear cut and bright as the first time I saw it and I remember the sense of reverence I felt the first time I saw Peter draw Rhindon from its sheath; the admiration the first time he let me feel its weight and how my narrow wrist twisted with the effort. Peter smiled at me, a gleam of pride in his eyes as he took the sword gently back from me and held it aloft, polishing the tip of the blade with a soft cloth where my slip had muddied it. I watched his smooth, boyish muscles flex and stretch without a hint of strain, and I knew the sword had been made just for him. I looked at his face and I knew how he felt, awed and powerful and frightened at the same time. It is too light and too small for him now, and it has been for years; though I can scarce believe it, it is now even too small for my son to wield. But it will do beautifully for Anna, and I know she will cherish it, even if she cannot remember to hold her hems out of the mud.

Lucy knows what she is leaving for her son, even if I don't. Her dagger and cordial already have their place in the ledger beside Lucien's name. What a blissful irony it is to know that the little boy who was so very sick will have the power to heal any hurt or injury. Save the loss of his own mother. Oh, this is such a sad task. Edmund of course will leave Lucien all his books and papers; the whole library will go to him. I can't imagine the library with only Lucien in it. For such a supposedly quiet place, it more often echoes with shouts than silence. With Edmund and Peridan gone, who will Lucien speak to? Who will hear his whispered words?

I know that Lucy thinks of this, now that this task has turned all our thoughts to the hereafter. She sets down her pen a moment, and turns the heavy crystal flask over in her hand, gazing into its depths with a strangely pensive look on her face. Such a little, unassuming object, but quite possibly the most precious and powerful of all the gifts. Still, it is good that Lucien is to have it. He is the only one of the children I think _could _take the cordial and not be tempted to use it as Peter has forbidden. A great power such as that requires a cool head like his, and that is possibly the greatest gift his Uncle ever gave to him.

Aslan knows, Lucy with her tender heart and her great urge to right every wrong has often found the cordial a heavy burden. Sometimes, in my lower moments, I have wondered why she, the Valiant warrior, was given the power to heal and defend, and I, the Gentle Queen was instead gifted with the means to cool and efficient dispatch, and to call a nation to arms. And I know that Lucy has wondered too. I've felt her eyes on me, admiring and envious as I stand on the shooting line, loosing arrow after perfect arrow, just as I have wistfully watched the glow in her eyes as she tilts a single drop of golden juice into an open mouth and brings somebody back from the dead. Surely our gifts were incorrectly labelled? Surely I was meant to comfort the people and she to defend them? But then I remember how she wept in my arms at the time of the sickness, how she shook with guilt and fear when my daughter died along with the rest. Her grief outweighed my own, for while my heart keened for my little baby girl Lucy was mourning the loss of a thousand souls, each of them dearer to her than her own life, and she felt it was her fault they were gone. I could not have borne that burden. I know I could not. Nor could I have emerged the other side of my torment, sadder, but stronger and wiser, as my sweet sister did. Aslan is wise indeed, and when I hold my own gifts in my hands, when I loose an arrow and watch it find its mark, I remember that everything happens for a reason, and as it should, even if we cannot fathom it.

My gifts, my bow and arrows, will go to Dashiel, of course. There is nothing that makes me prouder than watching my boy practise the craft I love, despite my reserve. That is when we seem most like a family, my husband, my son and I, when we stand together at the line, all of us focused on our mark, or when we tread the forest floor hunting for a fresh shot. My skill is more down to Christmas magic than true ability, but Dashiel has inherited his father's strong arm and keen sight, and with my bow in his hands, he will be unsurpassed. I almost want to give my weapons to him now, just for the joy of seeing him shoot, but I know it would only upset him to receive it, my tender hearted love. Whenever I've tried to coax him into taking a shot with my bow, he has shaken his head and pressed it back into my hands. "No, Mama. It's yours" he says, with such a serious expression that I daren't insist. I must take solace in the fact that he loves me so, and that, when he finally takes up my gift he will be more than worthy of it.

Properly, he should receive the Horn, as well; after all, his mother is known as 'Lady of the Horn' not of the Bow. However, I have in mind a successor for that title, and I know Dashiel would never begrudge her anything. In truth, whatever is hers is his, and whatever is his is hers, and it has always been so. So when I hold up my namesake and pronounce the name of my adopted child, Lucy does not raise an eyebrow or flicker a lid. She merely nods, and that pensive look fades for a moment to be replaced by a soft, motherly smile as she writes the name Juliette in her rounded, girlish script. My girl is so gentle, and so peaceful and so yielding. It eases my heart to know she will always be able to call for aid and that somebody will always come, even when she is beyond my help.

Now all the largest items are taken care of. The Christmas gifts are decided, and the jewels and plate are divided up between them. Mostly, the choices are obvious, possessions passing from mother to son and father to daughter. But we all want to leave something to the other children, some token to have them remember us by, and though nobody writes it down or speaks of it, we all think about our husbands and wives, and what we would want them to have, if we should go first.

So. Peter has bequeathed his armour and his seal to Dashiel, and his medallion to Lucien. Juliette will have his Coronation garments, with the golden embroidery she has long admired, and Anna will have everything else, and of course, his sword.

Lucy leaves her son her Christmas gifts and her books and her music box, the one he insisted she wind over and over again when he was a little boy. Juliette will have all her clothes, as the two of them are rather alike in their taste and figures, all prettiness and simplicity. Anna is to receive Lucy's bow and arrows, and Dashiel, my sister's great partner in her love of the land, will have the carved walking stick Mr Tumnus made for her, to accompany him on his adventures when her hand is no longer there at the crook of his elbow.

Edmund has left the library and all its contents to Lucien, and the music room to Juliette. Such a sweet idea, to leave them the sanctuaries that he shared with them, and all the memories those places must hold. Anna will have all his correspondence, every witty barb he ever penned, and Dashiel, who found his voice under my brother's care, will have his little lute, that he and Juliette might make sweet music together. Who knew Edmund could be so personal, so poetic? But I am coming to realise that even though I know him better than most, there is much more to Edmund than anyone might suspect.

And as for me... well. It's not been easy to decide, but I think I have found something to suit everybody. Dashiel will have the bow and arrows, and my acorn pin. Juliette shall have my engagement ring, (though not my wedding ring, as I shall never take it off) and my sewing box, and the baptism gown I embroidered for Dashiel when he was born. To my niece, I leave my entire wardrobe, all the grand dresses she has admired for so long. I have never thrown anything away, even after the tide of fashion moved on, and I realise now that I have long been planning to hand things down to her, since she was a tiny, wide eyed girl on the floor of my dressing room. Most of the garments are in storage; I have not been able to fit into them for years, not since my second child, but Anna is as slender and graceful as a reed, and I know they will fit her as if made for her.

The only person I have had trouble with is Lucien. I love him so, but he is such a mystery to me. In the end, that is what made my decision for me. A puzzle. An enigma. I think I have finally found the perfect thing. When the Tisroc, then Prince Rabadash was courting me, he presented me one evening with a strange little trinket, a jewelled tube, with an ornate dragon's head at each end, mouths gaping wide open. The belly of the tube is as round and as wide as a finger, and the Prince bid me to slide my forefingers inside at each end to show me the trick of it. I did so with a little reluctance, for I was beginning to know my suitor to be a wily and unpredictable lover, but manners dictated I must, and so, I did. Sure enough, there was a nasty surprise, as I found my fingers stuck fast within. The more I pulled, the tighter the tube seemed to squeeze, and I began to panic as the Prince shook his head with cruel glee. Then he wrapped his arms around me and breathed a single hot word in my ear: "Relax". And though it took me some moments to master my fear and do as he commanded me, to my great surprise, as I let my muscles go limp, the tube slipped from my fingers and landed on the rich carpet with a heavy thud.

After that encounter, I never really grew to like the thing. But it is undoubtedly beautiful, and the lesson it taught me was a valuable one. I know Lucien will like the finger-trap for its joke and its bright jewels, but I hope that one day he will see what I mean to tell him by bequeathing it to him. If only you can learn to relax and let go, then, and only then can you be truly free. I see my nephew is wound tight, always in control. In that way, he is similar to the way I was when I was young, before I opened my mind and my heart up to the possibility of true love.

And to my true love, I leave everything else. Every letter I wrote to him. Every song I ever sang. My tiny dancing slippers he always refused the risk of treading on. The greaves and finger tabs he cut for me, which I have worn to supple smoothness. The beautiful portrait that Peridan painted of me when I was a young girl full of dreams.

And now, all my dreams have come true, have they not? I have everything I ever wanted, and I could not be happier. Though this task my brother has set seems a melancholy one, I find myself smiling as I fold my little treasures in tissue paper and lay them back in their boxes. For truly, this is not about death, but about life. Not about loss, but about love. I love these people, the family I was born with and the family we have created together. I love them so much that I want to take care of them even after my death, and remind them of me when I have gone. That is a happy thing. I look up and catch my sister's eye, and when she sees me smile, though she looks a little puzzled, she returns the grin as one can always count on her to do.

At last, she shuts the ledger with a slap and stands up, shoving it under her arm and slipping her other hand through mine. I give her a squeeze and we leave the treasury feeling, if not joyful, then safe and satisfied with our evening's work. All is as it should be, and we are reminded of how lucky we really are. We drop the book off with our brothers, now equally merry in Edmund's study, their feet up before the first fire of the fall, and the majority of their work done. Lucy and I are too weary to join them, so we bid them good night and go out into the hall.

The night is drawing in, dark and strangely chilly after we have been so accustomed to the summer evenings, and I shiver as we kiss goodnight and part. She takes the Eastern corridor as I take the South, both of us going to our beds and our husbands, and I wrap my arms around myself, anticipating the heat of Erech's warmth and his embrace. I am suddenly so very happy, I cannot stand it. I am a fortunate woman indeed, and tonight, my husband shall be a very lucky man.


End file.
